Open Book

by Jessica Simpson

  WHEN THE SHOW PREMIERED ON AUGUST 19, IT WAS LIKE SOMEONE slammed the accelerator on our lives and marriage, pushing it to the highest possible speed. It got huge ratings for MTV, and the stand-out moment that every late-night comic and news magazine talked about was when Nick and I ate our Atkins-approved Chicken of the Sea for dinner, watching a game in the living room.

  “Is this chicken what I have, or is this fish?” I asked.

  Nick turned his head to stare at me, dumbfounded.

  “I know it’s tuna, but it says chicken,” I said. “By the sea. Is that stupid?”

  The resounding answer across America was yes. My airhead moments—and there was a genuine doozy in each of the first ten episodes—became known as “pulling a Jessica.” The show started titling episodes with my gaffes, “The Platypus” for when I thought it was pronounced “plata-ma-pus,” and “Buffalo Wings” after that time I told Nick I didn’t eat them because they were made from buffalo meat. Yes, these were all legitimate ditzy moments.

  I didn’t care if people made fun of me, because we were pulling in nearly three million viewers a week. My album, In This Skin, was released the same day as the show’s premiere and did okay numbers, but sales rose as the show became more and more of a pop culture phenomenon. Two months later, my second single, “With You,” was my first number one on the Billboard pop chart. I shot the video at our house, and it highlighted all my gaffes. “With You” became a TRL staple for months without me having to beg anybody to call in.

  Hand it to my dad, because he was absolutely right. People who had dismissed me as a Britney-bot now heard me in a different way. Being the butt of the joke ironically gave my music credibility. I was the girl who burped, but, hey, did you hear her singing to herself right after? There was no autotune in my kitchen. It turned out I had an amazing voice.

  My record sales got a huge bump from Newlyweds, so when Nick’s SoulO album came out in November, everyone expected it to do as well as, if not better than, mine. Instead, it bombed. In his debut week, he sold a tenth of what he got his first week on the last 98 Degrees album. He had two singles—the second of which was even the theme to our show—and neither even charted on the Billboard Hot 100.

  Still, we were both getting many offers for appearances and endorsements. We could pick up a hundred grand to sing three songs at a Bar Mitzvah or crazy money to surprise employees at a Chicken of the Sea staff meeting in San Diego. We had once been these also-rans in the music industry, rating vague “I think I know you” second glances in public, and now we couldn’t walk a foot without five people coming up to us.

  The fame was new, but it was also a new kind of fame. Reality television knocked famous people off the pedestal. Girls felt like I had hung out with them in their living rooms, and so when they saw me, they ran up to hug me like we were girlfriends. Couples identified so strongly with us. A man came up to Nick and me early on, pointing to a shy woman at his side who looked nothing like me. “I’m married to a Jessica,” he said. “She can say the dumbest things, too.”

  I looked at her and took her hand. “Like ‘I do,’ right?” We smiled at each other and laughed. “Yes!” she said. It was little moments like that, where I was in on the joke and invited others in, too, that made me feel powerful.

  MTV signed us for a second season to air in January, with filming set to start on our October 26 anniversary. In the weeks before we went back to work, the media coverage escalated. When Justin Timberlake hosted Saturday Night Live for the first time in October, he put on a blonde wig and shawl to play me trying to defend my intelligence on Saturday Night Live, with Jimmy Fallon doing his best Nick. We watched a tape of it together.

  “Hi, I’m Nick Lachey,” said Jimmy, “formerly of the band 98 Degrees, and currently of . . . well . . . nothing.”

  “And I’m his wife, Jessica Simpson,” said Justin, “formerly of the band . . . Jessica Simpson.” He gave me a strange Long Island accent.

  I turned to Nick. “I don’t talk like that, do I?” I asked.

  “Nah,” Nick said.

  Maybe if he did my actual voice it would be too close to his then girlfriend Britney. “I know my arms aren’t that hairy,” I said. “Bet he didn’t think he’d be playing me someday.”

  A couple days later, we were set to shoot the cover of Rolling Stone. I know Nick saw that as the pinnacle of fame. And then my dad called me.

  “They just want you on the cover, Jessica,” he said. “Without Nick.”

  “Oh,” I said. I hung up, and I remembered a story CaCee had told me when the Newlyweds deal was presented to Sony. Tommy might have hated the idea, but the marketing people loved it because they saw what it did for the Osbournes. Nick was at a different label, and one of the Sony guys pointed to the agreement.

  “I just want everybody to know there’s going to be a winner and a loser in this situation,” he said. “And let’s just hope our girl is the winner.”

  The problem was, if Nick lost, so did I.

  WHEN WE STARTED FILMING SEASON TWO ON OUR FIRST ANNIVERSARY, we and the whole crew knew the stakes. Whatever we needed to do to keep that ATM spitting out money would be fine with us. The conceit was that my dad had booked me a gig that would put me in Atlantic City on our anniversary, so Nick would surprise me afterward with a weekend trip to New York City. I was supposed to believe that my husband arranged for rose petals to lead me from the hotel door to the bed and then a horse-and-carriage ride to Tavern on the Green. Oh, and he also had the top tier of our wedding cake re-created and sent to the restaurant so we could eat it, a tradition that neither of us had ever heard of.

  Nowadays, we all know how much production goes into “reality,” but back then, people believed. Of course, Nick had nothing to do with any of that, but I wanted people to believe he was everyone’s vision of a leading man. The problem is, Nick could hit his marks, but he couldn’t improv any lines. While eating the cake, I asked him what song we were dancing to a year before on our wedding day.

  When he hemmed and hawed, I tried to help him. “Baby, you don’t remember our first dance?”

  He didn’t. I put my head in my hands, not because I was mad at him, but because I was frustrated that he couldn’t even act the part MTV handed to him.

  “It was ‘Crazy Love,’ ” I said quietly.

  We had become actors in our own lives, playing ourselves. Worse, we slowly started acting out our parts even when cameras weren’t rolling. When we did appearances, we didn’t want to disappoint people by not doing the whole act. It didn’t feel wrong, because it was just exaggerated, idealized versions of ourselves. Heck, I wanted to be that happy. Performing as Nick and Jessica became constant, because we had eighteen or so gigs booked for December alone. We didn’t even bother to get a tree, even though MTV probably would have decorated one for us. We went to Ohio first to see Nick’s family, then my Nana and Papaw’s house in Waco. Of course, we took the Newlyweds crew along to film every minute.

  I couldn’t hide my sadness in Waco. Partly because the holidays always made me miss Sarah, especially when I was with her brother and parents. But I was also starting to feel detached from my real life, and seeing my extended family perform for the cameras made me realize how much I was playing a part. Nowadays, I see so many people performing their identities on social media, but I feel like I was a guinea pig for that. How was I supposed to live a real, healthy life filtered through the lens of a reality show? If my personal life was my work, and my work required me to play a certain role, who even was I anymore? I had no idea who I really was.

  But fame and money are great distractions. When we hosted SNL together in January, timed to the premiere of the second season, my dad told us to think of it as an audition reel for other shows and film studios. We both wanted to do real acting and needed an exit strategy from reality TV, which we knew was about to lose the novelty. My dad came to me with more and more endorsement offers that requested me solo. Unless you’re an athlete, it’s a girl’s wo
rld when it comes to selling products. When MTV produced the Super Bowl halftime show in Houston, they invited me to kick off the show. Without Nick. Just as he was trying to build a solo career, his success became tethered to me.

  He was proud of my success, but Nick also wanted somebody who could make him feel like I did when I was nineteen years old, fawning all over him. I don’t think he understood how to have the kind of relationship where I didn’t need him to tell me what to do. It was not a happy time for us, and people were no longer satisfied with just seeing us on Newlyweds. The tabloid industry realized we sold covers, and paparazzi began to swarm both of us, but especially me. This was before everyone had a phone in their pocket, so the paparazzi industry was incredibly lucrative. You just needed a camera and a willingness to run red lights to chase someone down.

  As the frenzy built, the camera crew tried to shoot us as they always had. But soon, that became impossible. If they arranged for us to sit outside somewhere, people would pull up chairs like they were watching the show. It became impossible to hide. The simplest errand would lead to eight to ten cars following me and getting in front of me to block me to get a shot of me with my new Fendi bag.

  Still, the fame seemed manageable. And then it wasn’t.

  “YOU KNOW, THE ENERGY YOU PUT INTO HUFFIN’ AND PUFFIN’ AND TRYIN’ to get out of things, you coulda done them four times by now.”

  I can’t tell you how many times I heard CaCee Cobb say that. I built my reputation in the industry for showing up on time on the back of CaCee dragging me places. In early 2004, Sony allowed her to keep her A&R job while she became my full-time assistant while Columbia relaunched a deluxe edition of my In This Skin album to capitalize on my new fame. By then, Teresa’s artistic leanings weren’t valued at Columbia, and she was now over at Jive Records. To help promote the rerelease, I was set to do signings in four cities around the country. Thanks to file sharing, the bottom had dropped out of the music industry, so the budget was miniscule. Like someone went through the couches at Sony to collect change for me.

  On March 3, Sony flew us to Boston on a red-eye in coach because they were too cheap to pay for a hotel. We even did our own hair and makeup in the airport bathroom at Logan until a group of girls realized who I was and started to gather.

  “I’m a celebrity,” I informed CaCee for the millionth time. I was joking, but she was there to check me as usual.

  “Okay, crazy,” she said, “Let’s just get to the venue.”

  The “venue” was a Walmart. Our driver was a very brusque, older Boston guy who had no idea who I was and didn’t care either. I whispered to CaCee in the backseat. “Doesn’t he think it’s kind of weird that he picked us up at the airport and we need to go right to Walmart?”

  “Maybe he thinks we’re from corporate,” she said. “Career girls.”

  “We’re here to discuss the numbers—”

  A car behind us honked, and I realized we were crawling on the interstate. “I’ve never seen traffic like this,” our driver said.

  There were stretches where cars just weren’t moving at all, and CaCee began to get anxious. “I’m calling them,” said CaCee. “We are going to be so late.” But there was no answer at the Walmart. She left a message, and I yelled so they could hear, “Don’t blame me, I’m tryin’!”

  Traffic creeped and creeped until we finally got to our exit. CaCee seriously wondered if we should just get out and walk. When we got to the parking lot, we saw thousands of people waiting outside. “Oh, Lord,” I said. “What is going on?”

  And then they saw us. We were just in a regular old car with clear windows. News reports said I was in a limo, but trust me, Sony didn’t spring for a limo. People rushed the car, literally climbing on top of each other to see in as our poor driver freaked out. CaCee and I screamed and dropped down to the floorboards, half in terror but also with a huge sense of amazement because it finally dawned on us that this wasn’t a zombie apocalypse we had stumbled into. It was for me.

  “You’re like a Beatle,” said CaCee, and then caught herself. “I mean, your version.”

  The Walmart had expected five hundred people. Five thousand showed up. Walmart called the police and cancelled the event because there was too much of a chance for danger. Jessica Simpson: Menace to Society. Afterward, we called basically everybody we knew to tell them. The funny thing was that nobody believed us.

  “Well, y’all didn’t get out and do it?” said my dad, thinking of the five thousand sales left on the table. “What the hell?”

  “Dad, they would have had to call the National Guard.”

  Three people were arrested that day for disorderly conduct, and another was charged with assault and battery. For the signing in Philadelphia the next day, they had a SWAT team on standby. Walmart went ahead and just canceled the Dallas signing out of fear that the hometown girl would draw an even bigger turnout than Boston. I did one more signing at a Tower Records in Los Angeles, wearing jeans in case I had to run. CaCee wanted me to wear sneakers, but I refused. The compromise was Louis Vuitton sandals with a lower heel. There was such a huge crowd that in order to accommodate everyone, I had to start signing just my initials.

  “I love you,” strangers kept telling me.

  “Aw, I love you, too,” I’d answer, meaning it. In one week, In This Skin jumped from number sixteen on the Billboard chart to number two. (Darn you, Norah Jones!) That morning, Dad read an industry article to me about the success of the album, making sure to emphasize the part where they credited the well-oiled campaign to roll it out.

  “The sales went up two hundred percent,” he said.

  “Do percents go that high?” I asked.

  “They do now,” he said. I felt like I had won the lottery, because as much work as I put into things, I usually didn’t get that kind of return on the investment. There was always still more I needed to do, things I needed to change. “Okay, now, next time . . .” But this time, I let myself enjoy the moment.

  Life was always ready to keep me humble, though. On March 14, I performed for President George Bush at Ford’s Theatre, and afterward my dad I went to the White House for a reception. The room was just stunning, and I kept looking around because I had no idea who anybody was. Someone brought a blondish-gray-haired woman up to me.

  “Hi, I’m Gale Norton,” she said. “Welcome to the White House.”

  “I’m Jessica,” I said, shaking her hand. I made a stab at small talk. “And what do you do?”

  “I’m the secretary of the interior,” she said.

  “Oh my gosh,” I said, waving my arm high to take in the room. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Everything is beautiful.”

  My dad pinched my arm, and she just walked away. I was trying to be nice and give a compliment, but that’s her Jessica Simpson story. Now I know the secretary of the interior manages federal land and national parks. Believe me, I beat myself up so much over that one that I could ace a test on it. At least I’d made it to the White House again. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

  I don’t think Nick could either. In countless interviews, people asked him in front of me if he was jealous. “Her success is my success,” he said again and again, so convincingly that even I almost believed him.

  12

  Success Has Made a Failure of Our Home

  August 2004

  As we left the club, the flashes of paparazzi cameras blinded us, and Nick reached back for my hand. The photographers walked backward in front of us, knocking each other over and yelling to get us to look right at them.

  We were in L.A., a rare night that we were together. The valet had already brought the car, and Nick got in the driver’s seat. I pulled on the passenger-door handle, but it was locked. The paparazzi yelled to Nick to open the door, hoping I would smile at them for a shot. I didn’t. He finally unlocked the door, and I got in.

  I put sunglasses on, even though it was after midnight. The paparazzi surrounded us to get a two-shot of us in
the front seat, then about half scrambled to their cars to follow us. They would be right behind us to the gate of our neighborhood, just to make sure they didn’t miss us doing something. Anything. A kiss, a scowl—either way, the photo would sell and fit whatever story line a magazine chose that week.

  I waited until we were driving to ask him how he knew the girl.

  “Who?” he said.

  “That brunette by the door,” I said. She worked at the club, one of many that let us right in to drink for free, knowing they’d get an item in the tabloids that advertised their place to customers who would pay more to get in if they knew celebrities would be there. Girls always smiled at Nick, right in front of me. Groupies will always be groupies, but there was something different about the way he had looked at her.

  “You gave her that nod,” I said. “Like you knew her.”

  “I nodded?” he said. “Jesus, Jess.”

  Cue the cycle. I would accuse him of having a wandering eye, and he would rip into me, making sure I knew I was the one causing the problems in our marriage. Everything was my fault. In a real way, I agreed. There was something Nick wanted from me that I no longer had, an emptiness I couldn’t fill, and neither could he.

  I would freeze in conflict, which I know now was something that started with my abuse. My anxiety kicks in, and I can’t get words out. I would have the words, but I would weigh and measure each one in my mind. But they stayed there. Because I went silent, each argument would quickly become one-sided. His defense was an offense, and his words cut me deep. We were not one of those couples that screamed at each other, let whatever fly out of our mouths, and then make mad, passionate love. No, we would yell at each other, and then he would go out of town and not answer his phone. Vegas or Miami with his boys. Or he would just stay out late to teach me a lesson. He had a group of guy friends who used him to get into places and enjoy VIP treatment at strip clubs and bars. He liked that scene, and I thought it was gross. There were times I tried to be sexy like that for him, and I even jumped out of a cake for his thirtieth birthday party in an outfit that I thought was burlesque but was really just sad. If I dress like those women, I thought, maybe you’ll look at me.